


In The Name of Trelaw

by Inkonherhands



Category: The Grinning Man - Philips & Teitler/Grose & Morris & Philips & Teitler/Grose
Genre: Body Horror, Drowning, F/M, Facial Disfigurement, Hanging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26237818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkonherhands/pseuds/Inkonherhands
Summary: His hands are red with his own blood and he’s trembling from head to toe, but he doesn’t cry. She suspects he’s simply too overwhelmed.A couple of bloodied teeth knocked loose by the scythe glint in the snow next to him.They’re his baby teeth. He still has his baby teeth, for god’s sake.
Relationships: Lady Trelaw/Lord Hazlitt Trelaw
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	In The Name of Trelaw

Though they’ve been planning for this day for weeks now, the morning is still somehow frantic, from the very moment she awakes in his strong, warm arms for the last time. They flit through the house, adjusting already perfect arrangements, repacking already tightly packed cases, unable to meet each others’ eyes, unable to look away. She’s in their bedroom, a moment of stillness, when their son finds her.

“Mother?”

She turns, forcing her face into a semblance of a smile. He’s lingering in the doorway, fiddling with the ratty old comfort blanket he’s had since he was a baby, the tattered end of it trailing on the floor behind him. He’s still at that age where his eyes make up most of his face, huge and deep brown and round as two brass buttons. Her own eyes, filled with curiosity, gazing back up at her from under a mess of curls. 

“What’s going on? Where’s Nonnie?”

She closes her eyes as a wave of nausea overtakes her; she can’t help it. Eleanor, so much more than a housekeeper; assistant and confidant to her; friend to her husband; nanny and aunt in all but blood to their son. Hazlitt didn’t think the palace would stoop to the execution of a servant but they couldn’t be sure, and so she’d fled on their instructions last night, disappearing into the dark on the back of Hazlitt’s best horse. He wouldn’t be needing it after today. 

“We’re going away for a little while, my darling, so Nonnie’s gone back to her family,” she says, swallowing her fear - Eleanor is safe, she has to be, she _has_ to be - and crouching down in front of him. His tiny brow furrows in confusion. 

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going all the way across the ocean, Gwynplaine, isn’t that exciting?”

Hazlitt appears in the hallway behind him, his voice warm and steady, as though it is simply any other day. He catches her gaze for the briefest of moments before scooping their son into his arms so fast that he squeals in delight, dropping his blanket.

“The ocean, Father? On a ship?”

“That’s right, my boy, on a ship, just like the one in your book,” he laughs, balancing Gwynplaine on his hip. They’d agreed not to tell him until the last moment - he’s too young, he won’t understand, and he’ll fight them. Better to let him believe they’re leaving together, to let his last moments with his father be happy ones. And they do look happy; so at ease in fact, so content, that she can almost forget what is coming. But when Hazlitt meets her eyes over the top of Gwynplaine’s head, reality sinks its claws back into her chest. They say a thousand silent words in that moment the way only lovers can; a whole conversation passing completely unnoticed by their son. They always knew it would come to this, or some version of it. But that doesn’t make the burden any easier to bear.

Hazlitt gives her a tiny nod of reassurance before fixing his grin once more and jiggling Gwynplaine so he giggles. 

“Shall we let Mother finish packing then? Big smile now, that’s it.”

It isn’t until later, much later, as they’re trudging through the gently falling snow towards the palace, that any of them remember the beloved blanket left lying on the polished wooden floor.

***

Perhaps it is her fault. Perhaps she was distracted, too busy trying to commit the last of her husband’s kisses to her memory, to press it between the pages of her mind like a flower in a book. Or perhaps they were being followed all along, and nothing she could have done would have prevented it. But when they are pushed into the chamber by that snivelling clown and Hazlitt’s eyes - eyes she had accepted she would never see again - widen in horror at the sight of them, she is overwhelmed by a wave of guilt so powerful she fears she might drown in it. 

Hazlitt fights for them, of course he does, but it is too late. Neither clown nor king pay his howling any mind. 

When the king announces their fate, a fate they had prayed only Hazlitt would suffer, she thinks that he is lucky that she was already shackled. 

If not, for the way he looks at her son, she would have torn him limb from limb. 

***

They walk in single file, flanked by guards. They’ve left Gwynplaine unbound, thank God, and he’s silent as he follows his father up the hill, clinging to a hand shackled in iron. She’s not sure if he fully understands what’s about to happen. She prays that he doesn’t.

There is little time for goodbyes. Hazlitt is torn from his last embrace with his son, and in desperation she pulls free from the guards holding her and crouches down beside him. They let her, knowing there is nothing much she can do now to impede them.

“Gwynplaine. Gwyn, my darling, look at me,” she whispers urgently, but he seems hypnotised, unable to look away from his father as the clown slips a noose over his neck. With her hands bound behind her back, her voice is the only tool she has to keep him from witnessing such horrors, and she grows more insistent.

“Gwynplaine, _please_.” 

Finally he turns, the evening light through the thick winter clouds turning his skin a ghostly blue.

“Mother?” he whimpers, “Mother, I’m scared-”

“I know, my son, I know, come here.” she murmurs, shifting closer on her knees. He reaches out a hand, nervous eyes still darting back to his father, standing on the stool and gazing at them with something closer to defeat than she has ever seen in his eyes before. She nuzzles her cheek against Gywnplain’s cold palm. 

“You’ve been so brave, sweetheart, it’s going to be alright.” She tries to muster a smile. “We love you so much, my darling boy, _so_ much-”

The guard doesn’t let her finish before he pulls her to her feet, dragging her backwards and forcing her up onto a stool parallel with her husband. The rope around her neck is painfully coarse but she barely feels it, eyes fixed on Gwynplaine kneeling abandoned in the snow, frozen by fear more than cold, staring helplessly between his parents like he doesn’t know where to look. 

Hazlitt, dear, brave Hazlitt, spends his last moments trying to comfort their tiny, terrified child. She watches as he pulls Gwynplaine out of his catatonic state by directing him through the sparring drills she’s seen them practice a thousand times before; with swords of metal in the training grounds of their estate, and with toy swords of wood as they danced, giggling, up the hallways of their beautiful house.

When the clown kicks the stool out from under her husband, as the rope snaps taught, she thinks she screams. She can’t be sure. Everything feels like it’s happening underwater. 

It isn’t until her son’s tiny hands are tied behind his back that she snaps out of her horrified reverie. Gwynplaine struggles as he’s lifted onto a stool beneath a noose that only a monster would build so low to the ground, and she starts babbling, begging desperately for the life of her only child. Hazlitt would do a better job of this, Hazlitt would know what to say, but Hazlitt is a body swinging in the breeze and the clown is raising a foot to murder her son and she screams-

“My LORD!”

The clown freezes. 

She doubles down, grovelling, appealing to a heart she’s not even sure exists. She has one chance, one opportunity to save him. And somehow, in what can only be a miracle, it seems like she might manage it. The clown’s demeanour changes and suddenly he’s untying her, helping her down from the stool, and Gwynplaine is free and clutching at his throat, and she dares to think they might make it out of this cursed place in one piece...

When the clown reaches for the scythe, she realises with dull horror that they were never going to be so lucky. She grabs at her son, turning to defend him-

and everything goes black.

***

It takes her a while to reach him even after she regains consciousness. The ground swims beneath her fingers and she doesn’t trust herself to stand, so she crawls on her hands and knees towards the softly whimpering ball that is her son. Gwynplaine is curled in on himself so tightly that his curls are brushing the icy ground, moaning so quietly that the noise could almost be the wind whispering through the trees. She grasps clumsily at his shoulder and he flinches, raising his head to look at her. 

It is perhaps only the concussion that stops her from screaming in horror. 

Monsters, she thinks. Only the cruellest of monsters could have done this to her child. His brass button eyes are wider than ever, but the whole lower half of his face is unrecognisable; a ragged mess of flesh dripping ruby rivers down his neck. His hands are red with his own blood and he’s trembling from head to toe, but he doesn’t cry. She suspects he’s simply too overwhelmed. 

A couple of bloodied teeth knocked loose by the scythe glint in the snow next to him.

They’re his baby teeth. He still has his baby teeth, for god’s sake. 

He moans, reaching for her, trying to speak, but she shushes him, trying to force her swimming thoughts into motion. The ship. They have to get to the ship, or they’re both dead. She tears a strip from the bottom of her skirt, tying it around her son’s face in a poor attempt at a bandage, murmuring desperate apologies as he cries out and struggles away from her touch. The fabric is soaked instantly, but it’s the best she can do, and she pulls him into her arms, burying her nose in his hair. 

She does not look over his head at the gallows. She fears that if she looks at the thing that swings there, the thing that used to be her husband, she may never move again. 

  
  


***

When they reach the ship and see that the gangplank is still down, she nearly sobs with relief. It had been an exhausting walk and her legs had failed her more than once, pitching them both into the snow. They’re dripping wet and freezing, but they might yet live. They might yet stand a chance.

Her head is still pounding, her thoughts still slippery and intangible. Perhaps that is why, when she boards the ship on unsteady feet, she lets the captain lift Gwynplaine away from her, reaching her now empty arms out to accept a helping hand from another crewmember. It is only seconds before that same grip turns to unyielding restraint.

As the captain starts interrogating her son she struggles desperately, though the crewman’s hold is unforgiving. She cannot get free, but equally she cannot lose Gwynplaine again. She will not survive it. She watches in anguish as he scrambles back down the gangplank, away from the captain who lunged for his bandage, away from the crewmen who shout curses at his retreating back. He’s only a child, she tries to say. He’s my child, let me hold him, give him back to me...

“He’s a bad omen!”

“An albatross!”

“He’ll fate us! Doom us! Sink us all!”

She sees him fall to his knees on the docks as the ship casts off, putting churning white water between them. She sees him reach for her, the distance between his hand and hers growing wider with every heartbeat. She sees him screaming her name through a broken grin. 

She has failed him. 

***

The storm takes them within minutes. The ship is battered, torn apart by raging waves and howling wind, and along with the other passengers she is pitched, screaming, into the boiling black mass of the sea. 

She tries her best to swim. She fights as hard as she possibly can, with muscles already screaming in exhaustion and eyes that dance with stars, but it is not enough. Death has been hovering at her shoulder for hours, days even, and its weight is now too much to bear. She sinks, fingertips reaching for the churning, thrashing surface of the water...

Hazlitt is with her. 

“Gwynplaine,” she breathes, watching the bubbles from her lips rise to the surface. She needs to know. She cannot rest until she knows.

Her husband smiles. Time appears before her and wraps itself around her aching body like a scarf of softest silk.

She’s on the docks, on her hands and knees, sobbing as her mother is torn away. She’s in agony, the pain seared across her face like nothing she’s ever known. 

Time shimmers once more, sighing a swansong in her ears.

She knows freezing cold and then the warmth of a fire, a kindly hand, the friendly snuffling of an animal. She knows burning, searing pain; she knows confusion and bewilderment and frustration. Sparks of brightness, of laughter, of songs, of love. The sting of humiliation, the acid tang of vengeful bitterness, the misery of betrayal and grief and then…

And then...

“He finds peace.” Hazlitt murmurs. “It takes time, but he finds peace. He finds clarity. He finds the justice that we couldn’t.”

“You promise he’s alright?”

“He grows to be an old man, my darling, older than we ever were.” Hazlitt says softly. He holds out a hand at the same moment that she reaches to grasp it. 

“I’ll take you to him.” 

Lady Trelaw smiles. And lets herself drift. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my loves Mary (tumblr:maryloohoo) and Jo (tumblr:ratcarney) for proofreading this for me after I wrote it in one crazed chocolate-and-coffeee-fuelled day <3


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